Yes, keeping him in was the way to go.
Susanne drove through town and west on Highway 16. The city of Buffalo touted the road on billboards to tourists as the safest route to Yellowstone National Park from the northeast. It followed the path of Clear Creek up into the mountains, climbing gradually instead of making an aggressive ascent up the face like the other roads into the Bighorn National Forest from the north. Still, 16 was nothing to trifle with, and there were runaway truck ramps at strategic locations all along the descent. During his first year at the hospital in Buffalo, Patrick had been called out when an eighteen-wheeler plunged from the road into the creek bed hundreds of feet below. The impact had driven the nails from the driver’s boots all the way to his knees. That introduction to the mountains had made an impact on Susanne. She drove carefully, probably more carefully than she needed to, barely paying attention to the immense ancient rock formations that drew geologists from around the world.
Less than ten miles from town, she turned off 16 heading north onto a dirt road toward Paradise Ranch and Hunter Corral. The location was popular with locals and tourists alike because of its access to Cloud Peak Wilderness, and the fact that it was so near Buffalo. The established corrals, campsites with fire pits and picnic tables, trailer parking, pumped water, and Forest Service bathrooms were a plus. She drove through a grove of aspens near the creek. After she emerged from it, a prairie ridge towered to the right, fronted by dramatic rock outcroppings. On her left, the high prairie gave way to forests, creeks, lakes, and the towering peaks of the range. Cloud Peak with its superior height lorded it over the others from the center. All told, when she arrived at Hunter Corral, it had been less than an hour since she’d gotten out of the bathtub, despite the dramatic change in elevation and scenery.
The parking area was jam-packed. She drove slowly around the road that looped through the sites, checking each one as she scanned for their white truck and red trailer. Every now and then, she would flit her eyes back to the center of the loop where the water and the restrooms were. Camping with horses meant a lot of shoveling poop, carrying hay, and hauling tubs of water. But after making one complete circuit, she still hadn’t spotted Patrick and the kids.
The anxiety that had started at the Busy Bee Café and never quite left her intensified.
She retraced her path with her windows down. Campfire smoke and the surprisingly sweet scent of horse manure filled the cab. This time around she noticed a white placard that said FLINT on one of the numbered campsite markers. This was both strange, and not. She’d made their reservation here, so she’d expected to see it. But what she hadn’t expected was that the vehicle parked at the site wouldn’t be theirs. She idled behind the unfamiliar blue Ram truck. Then she remembered that each campground area had a host at the edge of the grounds. She drove onward until she reached the last spot, where a trailer with a semipermanent feel was set up. Sure enough, there was a small placard on the site marker identifying it as the location of the host.
She parked and walked to the trailer. Softly at first, then harder, she knocked on the metal edge of the screen door. It rattled against the frame. “Excuse me.”
A plump woman in a pink gingham appliqued apron appeared, wiping her hands on the skirt. “Can I help you?”
“Hello. I hope so. I’m looking for my husband and kids. His name is Patrick Flint. We had a reservation, but there seems to be someone in our spot.”
The woman’s brows furrowed. “Randy, we’ve got someone here asking about site thirty-six.”
The trailer rocked as Randy walked its length. Where the woman was plump, he was positively round. He was holding a chicken leg between a thumb and forefinger, and barbecue sauce dotted his chin. “Sorry. Are you Mrs. Flint?”
“Yes. Susanne Flint.”
He nodded, then wiped his bare forearm across his mouth, smearing the sauce on his chin. “We let the site go when no one showed up by check-in time. There’s a long list of folks wanting to use it this weekend. I’m afraid we’re all filled up.”
Susanne rocked back on her heels. How could that be? “My husband and kids should have gotten here hours ago. Around noon.”
He cocked his head. “Did you check all the sites real good for them? Sometimes people use the wrong spot by accident.”
“I did. They’re not here.”
He looked off over her shoulder to the right. “Well, ma’am, I don’t know what to tell you. They probably found someplace else where they’d rather camp. But if you’re worried about them, let the Johnson County sheriff know. And report it at the Forest Service offices in Buffalo.”
Susanne stared at him.
His gaze shifted to her, then softened. “I’m sure they’re fine. It’s a big wilderness. Lots of places to camp.”
A big wilderness. Indeed. Exactly what she worried about. She nodded. “Thank you for your assistance.”
But as she walked back to the station wagon, she pressed her fist against her mouth. It was one thing simply to be apart for a long weekend, but another altogether to have no idea where her family was in the midst of over one million inhospitable, remote acres.
She drove back to the house in a fog of worry. The outside lights weren’t on. Did I forget them? Did a bulb burn out? Her stomach clenched like a fist. With Ferdinand inside, she had nothing to keep visitors away from the house, the four-footed or two-footed kind. She parked as close as she could get to the front door, sweeping the headlights of the station wagon as best she could to spotlight the area. She didn’t see anything. Or anyone.
She opened the car door. The wind had been picking up, although it wasn’t storming, and it was like a damper on the night sounds. Hair blew into her mouth, and she spit it back out. Drawing in a deep breath, she caught a whiff of something unfamiliar. A foul odor. Bear? No. Don’t be ridiculous. It’s nothing. Probably just Ronnie’s trash. For a moment, she thought about driving to her neighbor’s and asking for an escort into her house, but only for a moment. She wouldn’t humiliate herself forever by providing further evidence that she’s not cut out for Wyoming. She stuck her keys point out between her fingers like she’d learned to do in Patrick’s self-defense lessons, then tucked her purse under her left arm and jumped out. She hip-bumped the car door closed and ran for the house.
With no lights and clouds covering the moon, she fumbled for the lock she couldn’t see. She pushed her hair out of her face and dropped her purse.
“Shit.” The stench from earlier grew stronger.
“Don’t move,” a man’s voice said behind her as an arm slid around her throat like a boa constrictor.
Inside the house, she heard Ferdinand growling and clawing at the wood between them. Her keys joined her purse on the ground as she screamed.
Chapter Nine: Push
Southwest of Walker Prairie, Bighorn National Forest, Wyoming
September 19, 3:00 a.m.
Patrick
Patrick jolted awake. “Susanne. Are you okay?”
He reached out, ready to jostle her, but also eager just to make contact. He had a feeling of dread, connected to his wife. Was he dreaming? But if it was a dream, he couldn’t remember any of it. That’s when he heard loud snoring. His hand thumped something hard and spikey. That wasn’t Susanne. Where was she? For someone as pretty and petite as her, the decibel level of her allergy-induced snoring was occasionally impressive.
And then the day came back to him. Susanne staying behind, the camp he’d set up with the kids, their sleeping bags in a row in the big canvas tent. It was Perry’s spikey-haired head next to him. A deep, aching loneliness rippled through him. He didn’t like being apart from his wife, even for a hunt with the kids. He wished she had come. Not only that, but he was worried about her on her own. He shouldn’t be. She was a grown, capable woman. But he couldn’t help it. He had a deep, inextinguishable need to protect her, and he couldn’t do it from here.
He’d be annoyed she wasn’t here in the morning, he was sure, but right n
ow, he was sorry he hadn’t just taken everyone to Disneyland for vacation again, like he had last year. Then, he’d been Husband and Dad of the Year. Now, he was persona non grata with his wife and daughter.
The snoring continued, louder.
“Perry, wake up. You’re snoring.” He pushed on the boy’s shoulder.
“Huh?” Perry’s head rose. “I have to go to the bathroom.”
Patrick could just barely see a glint from Perry’s eyes, thanks to the ambient light of the full moon peeking in the window panel. Full moon. The clouds must have cleared. It had been raining when they fell asleep. Patrick and the kids had taken refuge in the tent with some MREs—Meals Ready to Eat—then fallen asleep early. He listened. The rain had stopped, but the wind hadn’t. But even now that Perry was awake, the snoring continued.
“Sorry, I thought you were snoring. Is it your sister?”
Perry rubbed his eyes and leaned over her. “No. What is it?” His voice sounded a little nervous.
Patrick stilled and listened harder. It must be coming from outside, which meant it was really loud if he could hear it so distinctly over the wind. Was it a someone or a something? A bear would be unlikely. Even if it had somehow gotten to their stash of food hoisted high over a tree limb, it would eat and retreat, not necessarily in that order. The animals were very shy. For a moment, he imagined a black bear with a full belly curled up near the dwindling warmth of the ashes from their fire. It hadn’t been a great fire, not once the sky had started falling.
The noise changed, the rumble broken up by louder sounds. Snapping. Yapping.
It wasn’t snoring at all. It was growling, and now it was animals fighting.
Patrick patted his hand around on the tent floor until he found the revolver he’d hidden under his coat. He palmed it and crawled on all fours to the door. “Wait here.”
Trish rolled over. “What’s going on?” Her voice was thick with sleep.
“Something’s out there,” Perry said.
“What is it?”
“Dad’s going to find out.”
Trish got out of her sleeping bag and knelt beside her brother. “It’s cold.”
Patrick raised the zipper as slowly and as quietly as he could, just a foot. Inside the tent, the sound of the zipper teeth was like revving up a Weed Eater. But with the growling and the wind, he doubted the animals outside heard it. The over-flap was still tied in place, and he unfastened the lowest tie. The growling sounded close, and he didn’t want to create a big open door for a predator, straight into the tent, right to his kids. He lowered his head and turned it so he could see out the spyhole he’d created.
It took several seconds for his eyes to adjust. It was lighter outside, thanks to the clearing skies and moon, but still nighttime in a forest clearing with no artificial light for many miles. He could hear the sounds distinctly now. Definitely multiple animals. And something else, too. The snorting and huffing of distressed horses. He strained to see them, but couldn’t get a fix on their silhouettes. Whatever was out there had them spooked, although with horses, it didn’t take much to trigger their prey-animal instincts. He had to scare the visitors off before the horses found a way to hurt themselves, if they hadn’t already. Even tied to a highline, horses could still do self-damage. It was the essential nature of horses. Crashing into each other or the trees, lashing out with front hooves, kicking with back hooves. They could even tangle each other’s lines if they got too frantic.
“What is it?” Perry said.
“Are the horses okay?” Trish asked.
Patrick held up a hand. The fire ring had come into focus, and he didn’t like what he saw. Coyotes. At least three of them, maybe more. Big ones. From their movements, they were eating something. Ripping, tearing, and fighting over a feast. What in the world could they have gotten into? No way coyotes could have raided the hanging food stores. And the horses were far too big for the coyotes to mess with, especially with four horses to work together to repel them. Even with them secured to the highline, that was a lot of hooves.
At least he hoped it was coyotes. It could be wolves. They’d mostly been hunted out of the Bighorns. So it was probably coyotes.
Probably.
He turned to the kids. “It’s a pack of coyotes. I think the horses are fine.”
Patrick checked the ammunition in his gun. He had six shots. There was more ammo in his backpack, so he crawled to it and dug out the box of .38 Special bullets. It held ten more. If that wasn’t enough, he wasn’t sure what he could do. He wasn’t a good enough shot to pick off running coyotes in the dark with a bow and arrows.
“Wait here.”
“Where are you going?” Trish asked.
“To scare them off.”
“Can I come?” Perry asked.
“No.”
“But I have to pee.”
“You need to wait.”
Patrick eased the zipper up and unsecured ties farther up the flap, then rezipped and refastened the tent from the outside. The coyotes hadn’t noticed him yet, since he was downwind from whatever it was they were eating. He wanted to scare them off, but not in the direction of the horses or the tent. That meant he needed to circle around them about twenty yards. He moved as silently as he could, tiptoeing through the edge of the trees, hunched low, still downwind. He got as close as he dared—close enough that he confirmed they were coyotes and not their larger, more daring cousins, wolves. That’s a relief. When he was in position, he cocked the revolver, pointed it in the air, and fired.
The sound exploded into the night, busting the coyotes apart as if it had been a bomb in their midst. The horses whinnied, and he saw them now, restless and milling as far as they could on their lines. But they’d all been trained to tolerate gunfire, so it didn’t have the same impact on them as it did the coyotes.
He yelled, “Yah. Get. Yah,” and fired again.
The coyotes ran to the edge of the clearing as a pack, but then they stopped and faced him.
Shit. They didn’t want to leave their food. He advanced on them and took aim. He wasn’t a great shot at thirty yards, but he needed to convince them that leaving was a better choice than staying. He fired into them. Hoped for the best.
There was a pained yelp, and one coyote took off like a streak. The others followed.
Patrick stayed in place for a long minute, listening, before he moved toward the horses. With their excellent night vision, they watched him the whole way. Cindy was pawing like she was trying to dig to the far side of the earth. Reno’s flanks were streaked with sweat. Goldie had pulled back, and still had most of her weight hanging against the highline. Only Duke was completely calm. Patrick worked his way from horse to horse, checking for injuries, petting and soothing. They were all right.
The light dimmed, and he looked up. A big mass of clouds had drifted in front of the moon. Too late, he remembered his flashlight, back in the tent. He hadn’t wanted to alert the coyotes to his presence, but it would be handy now that they were gone. It would be nice if he could swish the cloud away from the moon with his hand. Or if he hadn’t made the bad choice about the flashlight.
“It’s going to be okay, you guys.” He gave Reno one last pat on the rump and headed to the fire ring.
What the heck had drawn the coyotes all the way into their campsite, and what were they eating? Coyotes weren’t as shy as bears, but they still didn’t usually come this close to humans. Especially not in areas where they had plentiful food and lots of uncrowded space to hunt and eat, like here. It was hard to be sure. He kept Seton’s Lives of Game Animals, all eight volumes, on his bookshelf for reference, and he had a passion for wildlife biology, but he wasn’t the world’s leading expert.
When he reached the fire ring, it turned out he didn’t need a flashlight to see what was on the ground. It was a mound of bloody, dirty entrails. He could clearly make out the remnants of intestines and see the ripped-apart remains of the rest of the animal’s guts. A big animal, too. Bigger th
an the coyotes themselves. But where was the rest of it? Coyotes didn’t usually drag their kills significant distances. For that matter, they didn’t usually kill such big animals. A fawn, yes, but not a full-sized deer unless it was old or sick, and certainly never a grown, healthy elk or moose. He pondered the significance of the entrails. No hide, fur, bones, hooves, skull, or meat. Just . . . what a human hunter would scoop out when field dressing an animal.
“What’s that?” Perry’s voice was right behind him.
“Their dinner.”
Perry leaned into his father and shivered. “It’s cold out here.”
“Yep. Fall is moving in. Why don’t you go back to bed? We’ll have a big day tomorrow.”
“Are you coming?”
“In a minute. I have to check the camp for more remains. We don’t want the coyotes back.”
“I have to pee first.”
“Stay where I can see you.”
He watched his son walk barefoot across the rocky ground to the tree line, wincing and hotfooting, head swiveling to check every sound. Patrick smiled. The kid was tough as nails in some ways, and still such a little boy in others. After Perry finished, he shot his dad a thumbs-up. Patrick joined him and walked him back to the tent, where he repeated the story for Trish, although her questions forced him to focus more on the horses, Goldie in particular. He secured the tent door again, then retrieved his camp shovel, which he’d left near the fire ring. It took thirty minutes for him to move all the entrails into the forest and half-bury, half-cover them. He burned another fifteen minutes scouring the campsite and beyond, searching for the rest of the animal.
He didn’t find it.
After he washed his hands with some canteen water, he went back to the tent. How long since he’d slept—really slept? Thursday, he guessed. Between the night in the ER, the emotions of the morning argument with Susanne, and the full day getting here and setting up camp, he was exhausted. Zombie tired. But the harder he tried to fall asleep, the more it eluded him. He counted sheep. He tried deep breathing. He practiced self-hypnosis. Nothing worked. In the end, he stared at the tent ceiling the rest of the night, trying to come up for an explanation for the animal guts in their campground that didn’t involve a sick bastard dumping them there.
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